


The Reaper's Assistant

by narcolepticSeamstress



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death, Child Death, Death Positivity, Father-Son Relationship, Minor Character Death, Other, Single Parents, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:09:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27204326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcolepticSeamstress/pseuds/narcolepticSeamstress
Summary: There is a myth that cycles around the small city of West Galefort, about the Grim Reaper. People whisper that when you die, you hear the clinking of chains and keys as the reaper approaches, and that’s how you know what is coming. Reports of older people commenting on the existence of bells ringing and hooded figures nearing upon their times of death.





	The Reaper's Assistant

There is a myth that cycles around the small city of West Galefort, about the Grim Reaper. People whisper that when you die, you hear the clinking of chains and keys as the reaper approaches, and that’s how you know what is coming. Reports of older people commenting on the existence of bells ringing and hooded figures nearing upon their times of death.  


This is not the Grim Reaper, but his assistant, a little lad who always follows behind him, decked out in his own little cloak and a flat white mask. This Reaper fondly refers to the 2-foot-tall, jingling lad as B.T., for his alleged initials. He carries a thick ledger under his arm and makes sure that the Reaper keeps on schedule, moving from house to house and building to building, collecting spirits and showing kindness to those who meet the pair.  


B.T. loves his job, truly. He loves meeting people and helping some of them feel better and getting his beloved Reaper to the places he needs to be; but his favorite days are his days off. His Reaper is kind in this way and allows him a day off every month or so to spend some time relaxing, but he usually spends time working on his hobby - organizing the tickets left behind from every client. The lad’s office, an imperceptibly high train car, is covered in shelves of carefully organized and labeled stuff. B.T. spends his time dusting and adding new pieces to the collection; the items bouncing around is where the jingling under his cloak comes from.  


He starts by carefully placing the items on his desk, inspecting them for all their wear and the little signs of life on them - chips in paint or material, loose threads or buttons, wrinkled pages or smeared ink. He cherishes and notes these little imperfections, and they remind him that those little things embody the person who left them behind.  


The first tag goes on a playing card lighter covered in scratches from wear and an engraved passage that said “Love, Marcus”. Her name and the date of her death were carefully printed on the laminated tag attached to it. The older woman had finally succumbed to her lung cancer and was sitting with a cigarette and lighter in hand when the Reaper and B.T. approached her. The three of them sat together in the hospice room and watched the nurses put a sheet over her body while they phoned her family.  


“I pretty much did this to myself, didn’t I?” she said flatly, letting a wisp of smoke meander it’s way around her head.  


The Reaper was silent for a moment, letting the silence hang. “Perhaps. A pack a day certainly doesn’t keep the doctor away, does it Nousha?”  


She laughed bitterly. “After a while, it doesn’t even matter you know? It’s just a thing to pass the time with.” She took a moment to blow a ring into the air.  


They sat in silence for a while, and Nousha Abriende lit another cigarette with shaky fingers, her chin propped on her hand while she watched her elderly mother arrive and weep bitterly over the sheet that covered her. The moment the nurses left the room to give her some privacy, the weeping became sobs and quiet whimpers, the man that drove her to the hospital offering her a soothing embrace. Nousha’s expression grew tight, and she turned her head to hide the tears dripping down to the hand holding her chin. It wasn’t long before she stood and walked to her mother, reaching out to touch her cheek, grimacing at the way her hand went through. “M-Mind if we go?”  


The Reaper stood and walked out of the hospital with Nousha, B.T. following behind with his ledger open to take notes. “Is there anywhere you would like to go before you leave?” the tall figure said with a bit of pity in his eyes.  


Nousha shrugged noncommittally, rubbing tears from her eyes and pretending like her face wasn’t blotched and tear tracked. “No, I’m good. Nothing much to stick around for when you’re dead.”  


B.T. checked his watch, and gently tugged on the hem of the Reaper’s cloak, muttering to him that it’s time. Nousha smiled, kind of wavy, and crossed her arms as a glossy steam train pulled up at the curb of the hospital.  


The Reaper held out his hand to her. “I need your lighter if you don’t mind. It’s your ticket to board.”  


She looked confused for a moment and handed over the lighter, a bit hesitant, which was passed off to B.T. It vanished under his cloak in the blink of an eye, and the door before Nousha opened. She boarded the train, sitting with a man who had wrinkle lines where he smiled, and receding hairline. The cloaked pair waved at her as she was carried off, until the train vanished and Nousha could no longer be seen.  


B.T. stared at the lighter for a moment, remembering her face and the way that she cried at both her mother and when seeing the man on the train; there was little he could do about it now, but he felt sorry for the woman. It went on a shelf high up, next to a paddle hairbrush and a star patterned rubber ball.  


He pulled a pair of wedding rings out of his cloak next - they were small and simple, delicate wooden bands. B.T. and his master had traveled to a cute little house in the woods, spending a little time outside before it was fully time for their appointment. When they went inside, they were met with the peaceful bodies of two young people, the pair’s ghosts standing together next to the bed where they lie.  


B.T. liked the simplicity of their little house; it was covered in edible plants and cooking supplies, recipe books stacked everywhere. There was a quaint little wishing well and garden outside as well, and a few labeled and taped down envelopes on the outdoor table.  


The Reaper approached the pair with B.T. behind and extended a hand to them in greeting. “Mx. Goliath Sweede, and Mr. Derry Arrey. It is both a pleasure to take you, and a pity to do so.” He smiled fondly under his cloak and shook their hands.  


Goliath smiled warmly, as if to an old friend, the dark circles under their eyes lightening a little when they shook the Reaper’s hand. “What took you so long, I thought the cream puffs I made you would end up going to waste.”  


Derry didn’t speak, as he was non-verbal, but he did smile and make a little huffing noise of a laugh. He signed, “And I made you a candy basket, since… well, this is likely the last time you’ll see us, and the little one needs his treats.”  


The Reaper smiled and promised that they would take them. “B.T. will be elated to have them, I’m sure. He’s almost run clean out of your honey gumdrops.”  


B.T. smiled brightly at the two as they fawned over him for a few moments, despite being older than the two combined - he didn’t hate the attention. While the couple and the Reaper continued to gush to one another how lucky it was that they would be allowed to meet one last time, B.T. inspected the empty bottle of wine on the side table of their bed, half full glasses alongside. There were tiny specs of crushed pills sticking to the sides of the glasses, the liquid having been too cold to have dissolved them into the liquid. The little cloak makes note of this in his ledger.  


The couple held hands and gently squeezed one another close. They seemed genuinely happy, even if they were dead, laughing and conversing light heartedly with their collector. The Reaper took their wedding rings when the train arrived, and they made their way onto it. Before the door could close, Derry turned to the Reaper and signed a last request. “Please take the letters we left. I don’t think they deserve to understand or to escape.”  


The Reaper smiled and nodded. “Anything for my favorites.”  


Derry smiled and closed the door, the two sitting together by the window and waving until the train rolled out of sight through the trees.  


B.T. tucked the letters into his ledger. They detailed the reason for Goliah and Derry’s deaths, mainly the destruction of the candy store and the ice cream parlor that each owned, respectively. A jealous boyfriend of Goliath had taken it upon himself to burn the buildings down at the announcement of their engagement. At the realization that they had lost their businesses and sources of income, soon their home, and any chance at the adoption they had wanted, it was clear the direction they wanted to take. It just had to be together.  


B.T. labels the rings and ties them together when he puts them on the shelf in his office, in a small glass box. He knows that the people behind their deaths were ignorant and petty. But he hopes that one day someone will love him as fiercely as Goliath and Derry loved each other.  


Out of his cloak came a camera next. It belonged to a young man who had quite the Rube Goldberg style of death - he fell from the railing off a mountain while trying to get the perfect shot, tumbled end over end down the side until he hit a dying tree, which then fell on him, and carried him the rest of the way to the bottom of the mountain with a small pile of rocks. The Reaper covered B.T.’s eyes when they arrived, only letting him face the spirit of the young man who fell. He was seated on a rock, head in his hands and the camera around his neck.  


B.T. made his way over and gently touched the man’s knee in comfort, while the Reaper stood beside and surveyed the rescue teams trying to excavate his body. “Mr. Callum Laz, yes?”  


Callum nodded in response, rubbing his face. He was hunched into a small ball, likely reeling from the trauma of his death. B.T. took notes on the man and set his watch while he pat the man’s knee to comfort him. Eventually the Reaper gently grasped Callum’s head and pulled him up to face him - the young man looked greatly irritated, face flustered. “W-What do you want?!” he yelled at the personification of death.  


The Reaper smiled fondly, as one would to a child, and released him. “To understand why you’ve become a turtle.”  


Callum looked even more embarrassed and tucked his head into his crossed arms, knees pulled up to his chest. “This is humiliating… not only am I dead, but it was in front of Annika! She probably thinks I’m a huge loser!”  


“I understand you’re upset,” said the Reaper with a smile, “but I can assure you that she’s only worried about you.”  


As Callum looked out over what remained of his body, he nodded and leaned forward a bit to put his head between his knees, trying to not vomit at the acceptance of his death and the gruesome way he went. He took a few deep breaths for a moment, and then turned to look at the pair in the cloaks. “I think I just want to get out of here before Annika and the others get here…”  


The Reaper nodded and allowed B.T. to collect his ticket - the camera around his neck. Callum hugged his arms tight around him and boarded the train when it arrived, resting his head on the edge of the window as it pulled away. It vanished from sight just as an SUV roared around the corner and a group of sobbing and shocked people stumbled out.  


B.T. flipped through the pictures as he tagged the camera. The last in focus picture that Callum took was one of Annika, smiling and framed by her hair and the golden sunset. After that were a series of blurry and incomprehensible photos from his trip down the mountain - in retrospect, they were morbidly funny to B.T.  


The curly-furred, stuffed lion under his cloak was less funny. For as long as he had been an assistant to a Grim Reaper, B.T. had never gotten used to the idea that he would also have to help guide the souls of children as well. He hugged the lion tightly, eyes scrunched shut tightly before he made the tag for it. Haru Saito, 7-years-old, a car accident.  


The family had been traveling to their new home, having just moved from San Francisco to West Galefort. It had been a rainy day, and the water had filled a series of potholes that covered the road. A curve in the road was taken too quickly, and as his father tried to regain control of the car after hydroplaning, they hit a pothole. Haru had been in the backseat and wormed free of his car seat seconds before; he was launched into the air when the car flew from the pothole and flipped into the air, landing with a crunch on the asphalt.  


The engine was smoking, and the radio was playing a warbled rendition of Britney Spears’ “Toxic” when the Reaper and B.T. approached. The two hesitated, before B.T. took the initiative to step closer and carefully pry open the door, offering a hand to the sobbing and scared child huddling behind it in a pile of broken glass. Haru scooted away from him, fearful, trying to shake awake his unconscious mother. The two let him try, and fail, his hand going through his mother as he tried to rouse her. It was never easy to convince a child to come closer and to help them understand what was happening, especially one so young after such a traumatic event.  


He left the car when the ambulances arrived, afraid to be in the way of their work. In his arm was his stuffed lion, clutched securely. The fabric was bloody, although Haru didn’t seem to notice this.  


The Reaper sat on the ground with B.T., looking at the boy. “Hello, Haru.”  


He whirled around to stare at the pair in their cloaks, nervous and afraid still. He said nothing.  


“It’s okay Haru. We’re here to help you and your parents.” The Reaper had adopted a kind expression, patient and unthreatening. “Your grandma is coming to pick you up, okay?”  


B.T. showed his Reaper his watch, and the familiar roar of the train followed close behind. It pulled up at the curb behind them, and an old woman came to the door, opening her arms to Haru. The boy’s face froze in shock and disbelief, before crumpling in utter grief, running to the train and into the arms of his grandmother. She picked him up and hugged him close, carrying him onto the train with her.  


The Reaper and B.T. watch the train until it leaves, and B.T. picks up the stuffed lion that was abandoned in the reunion. The former watches as his assistant holds the doll close and squeezes it, reaching under his mask to rub away the tears that scatter across his cheeks. It’s a few moments of surprise from the Reaper before he picks up his assistant and carries him to their next assignment. B.T. is allowed to hide in the hood of his Reaper for the rest of their appointments for the day.  


They wait for the train outside of the hospital, having returned for a pleasant old lady at the end of the day - there were no more deaths scheduled for the rest of the night, fortunately. B.T. was settled in The Reaper’s arms, gripping his cloak tightly as they waited; his mask was spun around to rest on the back of his head to be more comfortable while he cried in earnest.  


The Reaper held the ledger under his arm and rubbed the lad’s back - his assistant always had a hard time dealing with the death of kids. “You know, my boy, you never have to attend those appointments with me. They always affect you so much.”  


B.T. nodded, turning his head to peek up at him for a moment. He rubbed his face clean on the front of his master’s cloak “...I don’t want them to be alone.”  


This answer was the same every time The Reaper asked him. “I understand, but perhaps, you don’t have to come every time. We can review the cases and see what you’re more comfortable with. What will be easier on you.” He was rubbing the lad’s back now, the ridges of his fingers delicate against his cloak. B.T.  


B.T. mumbles a quiet “maybe” into the soft fabric, taking a last sniff and settling. When they get on the train, The Reaper says that he is going to let him take his vacation a few days early, and offers to take let B.T. stay in his bed for the night as a reward for his bravery. B.T. agrees, and although his sleep is fitful, The Reaper keeps his nightmares away. B.T. doesn’t let go of the lion doll until the next day, when he labels and places it next to the first ticket he ever received, a memory that almost feels like a scripted play in his mind. 

*******

It had been a warm day in July, right in the middle of summer. 6-year-old Barnaby Tate laid inside his bed at home, daydreaming of the beach trip that he was going on with his mom and dad before school started. The boy was looking forward to making sandcastles, splashing in the water, and eating all the ice cream he could possibly get his hands on. He hummed and talked to the sock monkey his mom made for him for his birthday, and it was the best thing that he had ever gotten as a gift so far. It smelled like lavender, stuffed tightly with old pillow batting. The monkey’s mouth smiled brightly at him as he drew, listening as he pictured splashing in the water on the beach and burying his dad in the sand.  


Barnaby sighed and looked out the window by his bed, watching the other kids play outside. The heat was almost unbearable and felt like it was crawling up and along his skin. He nodded off a little bit after, hugging his monkey tightly.  


A few hours later, the lad woke to the sound of sobbing, groggily staring up at his mother, who was sitting next to him and petting his head. She was sobbing into a handkerchief, looking tired and ragged, coughing hoarsely into the fabric on occasion. “Momma…? Momma, what’s wrong?” He reached out to touch her, his hand sinking through her face. He reached for her again, beginning to panic, when he heard a little cough behind him.  


A cloaked figure stared at him from where he was sitting on the child sized chair next to the bed. His face was in shadow, but Barnaby could feel the sadness coming from him. “Hello, little one. I’m sorry to meet you so soon, like this.”  


Barnaby cowered away from him, clutching his monkey tightly for safety. “W-Who are you?”  


The figure crossed his knees, albeit awkwardly due to his huge frame. “I am a friend, Barnaby. I’m here to take you to a better place.”  


The pair stared at each other for a few moments before the cloak stood and offered Barnaby his hand. “Come, little one. We’re on a schedule.”  


The lad, knowing that he could only be seen by the cloaked man at this point, took his hand and allowed himself to be led outside. “W-Where are we going…?”  


“Someplace safe. With lots of friends and ice cream. And you’ll take a train to get there.”  


“A train?”  


“A train. It’s the easiest way to cross over, given the amount of people that have to be transported these days.” The face hidden behind the fabric smiled, albeit tiredly.  


The two waited together on the sidewalk, Barnaby taking note that he no longer felt hot or uncomfortable, but that there was a pleasant breeze playing at the hairs on his neck as the train arrived. The doors opened, and the man in the cloak knelt to speak to him. “Alright, it’s time to board here. Ticket please?” And he held his hand out for the sock monkey.  


Barnaby clutched it closer and shook his head insistently. “N-No! My momma made me this! He’s my friend!”  


The cloak sighed and gestured for the boy to hand it to him. “What if I make a copy, and let you keep the original?”  


“...Promise you’ll give it back?” The boy looked him in the eye, an unexpected fierceness playing at his features.  


“Of course.”  


It took a few moments only for the cloaked man to pull a bright pink aura from the doll, before handing it back to Barnaby. “Here. Promise fulfilled.”  


Barnaby clutched him close, looking into the train. “Do I have to go alone?”  


The boy could see something like panic and indecision on the cloaked man’s face, before he slowly said no. “I can go with you.” He gathered him in his arms and boarded the train, ignoring the looks of curiosity and disbelief from the other passengers.  


Barnaby curled against him, pressing his hands into the soft folds of his cloak, the sock monkey pinned securely between the two of them. 

********

B.T. rubbed his eyes free of tears as he stared at the worn sock monkey on the shelf. The Reaper had taken part of it from him that day as his ticket, July 16th, 1918. From that point on, B.T. had refused to leave The Reaper’s side for even a moment, holding onto his cloak and following along behind him. Which lead them to today, through a century of sleepless nights, comforting afternoons, and what one client had described as a “Batman and Robin situation”, which Barnaby had read about in a comic book from a client.  


He took the monkey off the shelf and squeezed it tight, getting the faintest scent of lavender from the worn stitches and threadbare fabric. He ran his fingers over the patches that The Reaper had sewn on it while B.T. sobbed in his lap, and the snazzy little hat that his master made for it when that came in style during the 50s. A warm smile crossed B.T.’s face when he recalled the day that The Reaper had returned the pink aura to the monkey, along with his own cloak, once he became an official assistant.  


That night, B.T. slept in The Reaper’s bed again, more securely this time, feeling safe and sound for the first time in a long while.

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote for my last fiction course in college. I really liked the idea of there being a Grim Reaper for different sections of land, like this reaper has a county or like a series of square miles that he presides over, and B.T. is his assistant. I also wanted to just write something that could show death in a series of ways - anticipated and grieving, loving and together, comedically accidental, and devastating. 
> 
> Goliath Sweede and Derry Aerry are two of my original characters who's story doesn't end this way originally. I feel it is prudent to note that suicide is not the answer in dealing with your problems or dealing with the hardships of life, but I wanted to include them here as well as explore some themes of suicide and how I might include them, and after seeing Titanic one too many times, I knew I wanted them to go together. 
> 
> If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts or feelings, please do reach out to someone. The number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline in the US is 800-273-8255 .


End file.
